Hiding his surprise, Gyles waved to an anteroom. “I’ll be happy to explain.”
He led the way into the room, and was immediately collared by Lord Malmsey.
“Just the fellow I was after,” his lordship declared. “Heard a whisper there’s some amendments in the wind that perhaps I ought to take note of, what?”
Gyles ended holding court to four peers, all with a newfound interest in the political sphere. He outlined the basics of what their group intended to propose; all four gentlemen frowned, nodded, and, ultimately, stated their interest in supporting the cause.
None mentioned who had activated their heretofore dormant political consciences and steered them in the group’s direction; Gyles was too wise to ask. But when he reached home later that afternoon and headed upstairs to dress for the evening, he paused outside Francesca’s door.
He hesitated, then tapped.
Light footsteps approached. The door opened, and Millie looked out.
Her eyes grew round when she saw him.
Gyles put his finger to his lips, then beckoned her out. She stepped over the threshold; he put out a hand to stop her closing the door. With his other hand, he gestured down the corridor. “I wish to speak with your mistress-she’ll ring when she needs you.”
The little maid looked scandalized. “But, m’lord-she’s in her bath.”
Gyles looked down at her. “I know.” It was where Francesca usually was at this time of day, relaxing prior to donning her evening gown.
“Off you go.” He waved Millie away.
Looking positively horrified, the maid backed, then turned tail and went.
Gyles grinned and slipped through the door.
A hip bath stood on a rug facing the fire; Francesca, black curls piled high on her head, was sitting facing the flames. Wisps of steam rose, wreathing about her as she smoothed a soapy sponge down one gracefully extended arm while softly crooning what sounded like an Italian lullaby. Gyles listened for a moment, then closed the door.
“Who was it, Millie?”
He strolled forward. “Not Millie.”
She tipped her head back against the rim and watched as he neared. Smiled delightedly. “Good evening, my lord. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
He halted by the bath’s side and smiled down at her. Let his gaze roam the curves of her breasts, sheening wet and laced with suds. “I believe my pleasure is rather greater than yours.”
She arched a brow; he reached for her hand, lifted it, bent and pressed a kiss to her wet knuckles, then turned her hand and ran his tongue over her palm, then sucked lightly at the pulse point at her wrist.
He raised his head reluctantly. “You taste good enough to eat.”
Their gazes met, held; she raised both brows in question. After a moment, he smiled, squeezed her hand and released it. “We have to be at the Godsleys by eight.”
Drawing up a chair, he sat. “I wanted to ask if you’re acquainted with Lady Carsden.”
Francesca nodded. “We meet quite frequently. She moves in the same circles.”
“And Lady Mitchell?”
“Indeed, but Honoria knows her better than I.” Drawing her knees up, wrapping her arms about them, she searched his face. “Have their husbands spoken to you?”
“Much to my amazement. I don’t think Mitchell or Carsden has been in the House since their investiture.”
Francesca grinned. “Well their wives felt it was time they said something-did something-useful. Will it help?”
“Every vote helps. But I wanted to ask-how many have you and Honoria spoken to? Do you have any idea which others might be inclined to support us?”
Eyes sparkling, Francesca leaned forward. “Well…”
They traded names and opinions; from there it was a short step to the overall numbers, the increasing possibilities of success. They lost track of the time, only remembered it when Francesca suddenly shivered and looked down at the cooling water.
Gyles frowned. “Damn-I forgot.” He stood. “I’ll ring for more hot water.”
“No-don’t bother. I was finished anyway.” She pointed at a towel.
Gyles turned to pick it up as she rose. He turned back-and stopped, his mind wiped clean.
Dropping her sponge in the water, Francesca straightened and looked up, instantly noted the stillness that had claimed him, his fixed gaze-the flames flickering behind the grey of his eyes. She let her gaze roam swiftly, then she smiled, reached for the towel, tugged it from his slack grasp.
Dropped it on the floor and reached out her arms to him.
“I’ll write to Lady Godsley that I was in fear of taking a chill. And now, my lord, you had better warm me up.”
Gyles met her gaze, then reached for her, locked his hands about her slender waist, and lifted her from the tub.
Five days later, their select band of searchers still hadn’t found Walwyn, hadn’t unearthed the slightest trace of him, which only made them even more wary, more suspicious. According to Walwyn’s sister’s husband, “the old reprobate” was definitely in London, but where and in what guise they had no idea.
Leaving yet another meeting at White’s, Gyles returned home in time to dress for dinner. Tonight was Francesca’s family party, her attempt to gather the clan. He hoped for her sake the family would rally and enough would attend for the event to be deemed a success. She, his mother, and Henni had had their heads together for the past week, organizing and ordering. Although Francesca had regaled him with their preparations, distracted by his search for Walwyn, Gyles hadn’t taken much in.
He did know tonight’s dinner was to be a small affair with, aside from Francesca, only his mother, Henni, and Horace present.
“There were simply too many to invite,” his mother told him when he joined them in the drawing room.
“Indeed.” Henni took up the tale as he moved to greet her. “Even restricting the list to the heads of the different branches-why, there were over fifty, plus spouses-and if we’d selected amongst them, well-that would have caused ructions, which is precisely what we’re attempting to heal.” She frowned up at him as he straightened. “You’re looking a trifle peaked, dear. Have you been busy with your parliamentary business?”
“Among other things.” Gyles turned as Francesca slipped her hand through his arm. He smiled. As she exchanged some comment with Henni, he took in her appearance.
Tonight, she’d chosen to wear old gold. Her gown was of lush silk in that deep, rich shade that invoked the idea of treasure, the silk shawl draped over her elbows a medley of subtly contrasting hues, all golds and soft browns. Her hair was piled high, artfully cascading to brush her shoulders, the black locks a dramatic contrast against her ivory skin. From her ears, gold earrings dangled; a simple gold chain encircled her throat. And in the midst of the gold, her eyes glowed, intense as any emerald.
She glanced at him.
“You look exquisite.” Gyles raised her hand to his lips, let his gaze touch hers.
“Dinner is served, my lord.”
As one they turned. Joined by Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace, they moved into the small dining room.
By eight-thirty that evening, Gyles was more distracted than he’d been all week. From his position beside Francesca at the top of the stairs leading down to their ballroom, he craned his neck, looking back along the row of guests waiting to greet them.
He couldn’t see the end of the line.
Francesca nudged him. He hauled his gaze back to the elderly lady waiting to speak with him. He took her wizened hand, racking his brain for her name.
“Cousin Helen has traveled up from Merton to be with us tonight.”
Gyles shot a grateful glance at Francesca, then murmured polite phrases to Cousin Helen, who then informed him, in a voice that would have done credit to a sergeant major, that she was deaf as a post.
Patting his hand, she moved on down the stairs. Gyles caught Francesca’s fleeting grin as she turned to greet their next guests.